Jennie About to Be (24 page)

“A man rode in to see him last night; he'd just come from it. He said they were clearing for sheep at Kilallan. Alick didn't come to tell us then; it was so late to upset everyone. He went before daybreak this morning to see for himself.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Och, the poor souls! Over two hundred of them in all! Some had not gone away yet; they waited by the embers. One old couple had sat all day and all night by their dead cow. They said they don't know where to go. The young men are mostly away to war, and this is how they are paid, their wives and babies and their parents robbed and driven away like beggars or gypsies.”

Her color had poured back, and she was beautiful in her rage. “Oh, Morag,” Jennie whispered. She sat down because she felt too weak to stand. “If this is so, it is horrible.”

“It is so,” the girl insisted. “Mrs. MacIver told us more, just now. They had an hour's warning, and then the men came with the torches. The whole glen went up in the flames! Some ran in terror and hid in the hills, thinking they would be murdered, and some were so frightened they could only lie down and be sick. Niall Geddes, who was Mrs. MacIver's brother-in-law, shook his fist at the men and cursed them, and when they pushed him aside, his heart stopped and he dropped where he stood.”

She gripped the back of a chair. “May I sit down, Mistress?”

“Yes, yes!” She kept thinking how peaceful the cottages had looked this afternoon while she sat on the ridge with Alick Gilchrist talking nonsense about a fairy hill, and all the time he had known what he was going to tell them down there.

“Alick asked if any wanted to come back here with him, but they said, ‘Linnmore will be next.' ”

“It will
not
be.” Jennie pounded her fist on the table. “Is that what everyone's fearing? Can't you make them believe it won't happen here? Listen, Morag, the minister is going to help me start my school.”

“Dr.
Macleod
?” The girl was aghast.

“Yes. He was very interested,” she said emphatically. He could not have known the truth about the burning; a man of God would have had to speak of it. But she remembered some set or disturbed faces outside the church, and some tense, low voices.
Someone
had known. And if it was known in the village, how could Dr. Macleod have been ignorant?

“Dr. Macleod,” Morag murmured, shaking her head. “He has not set a foot inside any cottage in Linnmore for a long time; he goes only to Linnmore House. Mistress, the ministers preach that the landlords' rights are the will of God.”

That was a speech straight from Alick Gilchrist's mouth, Jennie was sure.

“Linnmore is quite safe. Do you think my husband would allow me to go on planning the school if such a terrible thing is to happen here?”

“Alick stopped at Linnmore House this afternoon to talk to the Laird, but he could not see him.”

“Yes, I know. I met him.” She thought:
I know now why he asked me if I had heard of the Year of the Sheep. He was trying to find out if I knew. What a babbling, inconsequential child he must have thought me
. . . . She was tired enough to lay her head on the table, but she knew she would not sleep now with all this seething in her.

“Morag, don't worry,” she said. “And tell Aili. Poor Mrs. MacIver, she has sorrow enough, so don't disturb her tonight.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The most terrible sentence a man can hear:
I shad evict you
. One hour's warning and then the torch. “Can you sleep after all this, Morag?”

“I am tired enough to die.”

“Then sleep, and tomorrow you may have leave to tell them at home that Linnmore is safe.”

The girl suddenly sobbed as if she could no longer hold back. “Oh, Mistress!” she choked, helpless and ashamed.

Jennie went to her and stroked her back. Her throat ached; she strained her eyes wide and stared up at the ceiling to hold back tears. Where were they now, those turned out of their home by their own countrymen with as little compunction as boys kick over an anthill and stamp on the hurrying victims? Her own homesickness for Pippin Grange now seemed an obscene self-pity.

In the four-poster Nigel slept as purely as a child. She wanted to wake him and tell him of the outrage and be comforted in his arms, but to break that innocent sleep would be mere self-indulgence. The only thing he could do tonight was to assure her that it could not happen here, and she already knew that.

She wished she could hand it all over to God, but as she'd told Aunt Higham, she sometimes questioned His motives. Surely He'd have a hard time explaining a good many things He allowed to happen and be piously explained away as His will.

Besides, one of His ministers had just lied to her. Or had he? She tried to remember the exact words. . . .
one of those unfortunate things, all too common
. Perhaps he hadn't lied, but he surely hadn't wanted to explain. She gave him credit for being unhappy about it, and at least he had promised to help with the school.

She slept at last, and it seemed as if she had just closed her eyes when she was awake again, with the light of a crimson dawn in the room. Red enough to be the reflection of fire, but a cold glare, like a winter sunrise foretelling a blizzard.

“What is it?” Nigel asked, up on one elbow, and she jumped. He put his arms around her. “I've been watching you sleep. You were frowning and twitching, and when you woke up—what an expression!” He laughed and cuddled her against his naked body, brushing his lips over her temple and brow. “What awful thing did you think of? A nightmare about spilling wine on your favorite gown?”

“The people at Kilallan,” she said at once. “Where are they all? It's cold, it's going to rain, and they've been burned out of their homes. How far would they have to go to find shelter?”

His amused caresses stopped. He tightened as if holding his breath, then let it go, in a long sigh edged with exasperation. “You did have a nightmare, didn't you?”

She put her hands against his chest and braced back against his restraining arms. “Are you trying to protect me from cold facts, my darling? Yesterday, when the smoke was all but choking us, you pretended it wasn't there. But Iain knew what it was; do you remember what he said? And Christabel claimed he was insolent.”

“He is, you know,” he said lazily, drawing her close again. “He takes advantage, just as I told you they do. When did you hear this nonsense about burnings at Kilallan?”

“Last night when the girls came back. You were asleep, and I went down to speak to them. Morag told me.”

“Morag again!” he said angrily. “Why do you persist in believing every rumor, every fantasy—”

“My dearest, you
know
it's not a rumor or a fantasy; Mrs. MacIver's brother-in-law is dead because of it. Alick Gilchrist rode out to Kilallan yesterday to see for himself. It was hideous. He tried to bring some bewildered old people back with him, and they said, ‘No, Linnmore will be next.' ”

She burrowed closer to him, trying to entwine herself around his warmth. “Did you and Alick talk this over?” he asked.

“No!” she protested. “He never mentioned it. I told you what we talked about. But he must have been on his way back from there. He'd tried to see Archie, and now I know why. He wanted some assurance for the people. They're so frightened, Nigel. It's disgraceful that they should be so terrified of their own countrymen! These aren't the days of Cromwell or the Jacobite risings.”

He stroked her flank, but the gesture seemed automatic. “Did he see Archie?”

“No, nor Christabel either.”

“Doubtless Archie saw him coming and took precautions.”

“Then it's up to you, isn't it, to tell them they're quite safe? That there'll never be clearing to make room for sheep? After all, there's room for both here, isn't there?”

His murmured answer was more a vibration in his chest than anything intelligible, but it was enough.

“I've told Morag already,” she said, “but it will mean so much more coming from you. So—today—Nigel, will you?”

“Yes, yes, I will go.” The promises were mumbled amorously into her hair.

M
ORAG WAS discreetly cheerful at breakfast, and Aili was almost her buoyant small self again. She gazed at Nigel as if he were a god, and he accepted this with magnificent unconcern. He was leaving after breakfast to ride around the estate on his errand of reassurance. “Patrick can divide the territory with me,” he said. “I'll go there directly and tell him. I'd like to see everyone myself, but it's not humanly possible in one day.”

“I love you more than ever,” Jennie told him.

“You'd better.”

The gamekeeper lived well out on the moors, off the road beyond the Pict's House. “May I ride partway with you?” she asked.

“No, you may not, my love. You would have to come home alone.” He held her shoulder. “If you're absolutely sure of Dora, ride, but only on this side of the ridge. Will you promise?”

“Yes, love.” Mock-meek, she held up her face to be kissed. When she had seen him off, she went into the kitchen and told the girls that as soon as Mrs. Maclver could spare them, they could go home long enough to take the promise that Linnmore wouldn't be cleared even if sheep were brought in.

Morag said demurely, “I have already been, Mistress. I woke early, and I was away home before even Mrs. Maclver knew it. My mother and Aunt Iseabal are here at the washhouse now to do the laundering, and they're singing like larks, except when they think of the poor souls of Kilallan.” She glanced respectfully at a stony Mrs. Maclver. “Aili and I will go on with our work now, Mistress. Come, Aili.”

When the door had shut behind them, Jennie formally offered her condolences. She tried to be as restrained as Mrs. MacIver was, but she couldn't help exclaiming, “It's criminal!”

“It is that, Mistress. My sister and her grandchildren walked from Kilallan and are with my father in the village. Her son is fighting in Portugal. His wife died when the last child was born. The English King wanted his strength and his courage, and may have his blood yet. The landlord, with all his land, wanted the wee bit Niall had, for sheep. No matter how little you have, someone who has more wants it and takes it, and the ministers tell us it is the will of God.”

“I wonder how they know,” said Jennie. “Perhaps they tell H
im
it's so.”

“The children have been so terrified when they saw their dog killed for trying to defend the house, and their grandfather die, one of them has not spoken since, and he was always the bright, quick one. It is like a candle gone out.” She had not raised her voice. “I asked Dr. Macleod what we were born for, if God willed such a life for us, and he only shook his head and could not look me in the eye. It will be a long time before I listen to the sermons of him or any other minister.”

There was nothing that Jennie could say that wouldn't sound feeble and inane even to herself.

“If they clear at Linnmore,”—the low voice went on—“I will not stay in this house. This is not against you, Mistress Gilchrist.”

“I understand that, Mrs. MacIver. But they won't clear at Linnmore.”

Jennie went upstairs. The girls were just finishing the work, and when they'd gone down the back way she unlocked her keepsake chest and took out one of the sovereigns.

The girls had now gone out to the washhouse to help, and Mrs. MacIver stood at the table preparing the ingredients for a cook-a-leekie. She refused the sovereign at first until Jennie said, “You can't deny it to the children. It's for them.”

For the first time the glacier poise was shaken, as if by a polar earthquake. “Thank you, Mistress Gilchrist,” she said almost inaudibly. Jennie quickly left her. She knew she had to do something constructive to take her mind off the crimes at Killallan; if she went riding now, she'd still be preoccupied with last night's and this morning's scenes in the kitchen.

She put the small table by a bedroom window, opened the window so she could better hear the birds and the surflike rush of wind in the leaves, and worked on a list of needs for her school. The minister would be able to tell her where the materials could be got; he might have a friend at Inverness who would collect the lot. A pianoforte was out of the question for now, but might one find a guitar in Inverness? Hardly. She'd have to send to London for it.

Another letter to Aunt Higham, then, in the next post, and she would arrange to meet with Dr. Macleod sometime during the week. If Nigel rode to the village, she could ride with him. She'd enjoy that, and she could stop on the bridge, as she'd promised herself the first time they drove over it.

It was all very elevating to her spirits. When, without being asked, Mrs. MacIver brought her a pot of chocolate and some buttered scones, Jennie felt as if her morning had been extremely useful. She had Fergus saddle Dora, and she rode over to the home farm to look at newborn puppies and drink strong tea with Christy Elliot. The burning at Kilallan wasn't mentioned, and it was a release to talk knowledgeably about the care of young animals and the progress of the crops. Nigel was always in the back of her mind; she kept having a picture of him shedding luminous assurance in one dim cottage after another.

He came home in the late afternoon, as bad-tempered as she'd ever seen him. He'd been caught in one of those brief hard showers that blew over from the mountains, and was cold and wet. She had the girls prepare a hot bath for him at once. He was short with them, and he swore under his breath at his boots and threw them across the room. He drank down three glasses of wine in quick gulps like a nasty medicine. But once he was in the bath, and she offered to wash his back, he became the old Nigel.

“Surly beast, wasn't I? Inexcusable. But—forgive me?” He brought her wet hands to his lips. Bad temper washed away, blue eyes like the best of summer skies. “It's only that being a factor is damnably more complicated than being a soldier.”